A Prologue to Love

by Taylor Caldwell

  Why was John standing there at the window, staring out? Caroline asked herself. She had only mentioned that Tom had pampered his older son. Yet he was standing there, rigid, as Ames had stood, and his profile, much larger and heavier than Ames’, had Ames’ sudden whiteness and intensity. Always sensitive to fear, Caroline could feel John’s fear.

  Then she knew something else. Her older son, so bulky, so apparently puissant and strong, was innately weak, vulnerable, helpless, confused. He was a man; in character, he was a child. Somewhere in his soul he had stopped growing. He had kept his childishness, his dangerous childishness.

  “John!” she exclaimed.

  She has abandoned me, John thought, my wife has abandoned me, her husband. I need her, but she’s rejected me. She’s let me go so easily. I thought she was strong and sure and could help me. He felt exposed again, vulnerable, frightened, vaguely terrified. And vengeful. Above all, vengeful, for being deserted.

  “He was no good,” said John. “He would never stand up against anything.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Caroline, feeling her son’s confusion, his darkness of mind. “Do you mean your father? He was the best man I’ve ever known, the kindest — ”

  John laughed vaguely. “I’m sorry. I was thinking of something. It isn’t important.” He went back to his chair. “Don’t be upset. You don’t look well. Have you been to a doctor recently?”

  “I didn’t ask you to come to discuss my health, John,” said Caroline. No? said John inwardly. What then?

  “I thought we might have a talk,” said Caroline, knowing it was no use at all.

  “Certainly,” said John, as if he understood.

  “I’m not young any longer,” said Caroline.

  John remembered old Brundage and was elated. “Of course you’re not,” he said in his rich and soothing voice. “This house, for instance, is too much for you. Your business is in New York. There is a house for sale next to ours, a gem of a house — ”

  “No,” said Caroline.

  John went on with an assumption of great eagerness: “Mimi would be there, and I know now how fond you are of each other. And there will be the baby.”

  Yes, thought Caroline, Mary would want me, but she has always had love. My son has not had love, not from his mother, his brother and sister. John would like to have me in New York, where he believes that he could influence me for his own good.

  “I’ve lived here too long,” said Caroline. “People my age don’t move so easily. A change of environment can be distressful.”

  What did the old hag want of him? John asked himself. It couldn’t be that she wanted some demonstration of affection in her old age, as he, John, had hoped. She had said no to everything he had suggested; she was still like iron, immovable, dull. He was depressed and restless. He wanted to leave this hideous place. Why was she looking at him so hard, so piercingly?

  “I’d like to know that you and Mary — ” said Caroline, and stopped.

  John was eager again. “We’re splendid,” he said. “Why don’t you visit us and see for yourself?”

  I’d like to know that Mary truly loves you, my son, thought Caroline, and accepts what you are without resentment or misunderstanding.

  “Let me know when the baby is born,” she said. She was so very tired.

  John took hope from that. She was interested, actually interested, in his coming child. Her first grandchild. Who knew? The thought elated him again. He could even, without taking much thought beforehand and with an air of boyish affection, take his mother’s arm and lead her out to the gate. Caroline could feel the warmth of his flesh through his sleeve and hers, and his flesh was hers, but it was the flesh of an absolute stranger separated from her forever.

  He waved to her gaily from the automobile, and she saw the false gesture and the hearty false smile. And the disappointed eyes. I promised him nothing; I gave him nothing, thought Caroline, I’ve done that for him today, at least.

  She was no longer afraid for Mimi; she was only afraid for John. There was strength in the young wife; there was no real strength or fortitude in the husband. “Be kind, Mary, to my son, in your youth and strength. Be kind to him, for I have never been kind.”

  Caroline went into her house, and it was silent and filled with the smell of dissolution. “Oh, God!” she groaned to the silence and the emptiness. “Oh my God, have mercy on me!”

  Caroline, the next morning, early, was called to the telephone. Ames said to her in a light and bantering voice, “Have you read your newspaper this morning?”

  “I was about to do so,” said Caroline, “when you interrupted me. Is there something that might be of interest?”

  Ames laughed. “Yes indeed. Dear Cousin Timothy died late last night.”

  He chuckled. He could hear his mother’s sharp breathing. “Do you want me to send flowers in both our names, Mama?”

  “No,” said Caroline. “Not in mine.”

  “Pathetic, isn’t it?” said Ames. “You’ll find a very distinguished photograph of my father-in-law on the first page, with a magnificent eulogy. ‘Of the famous Esmond family, distinguished not only in Boston but in the capitals of Europe. Distinguished this, distinguished that. First Families.’ The funeral is on Friday. You won’t be attending, of course.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Caroline. She thought: So one enemy is less in the world; one of the terrible has died. “Of what did he die, if you know?”

  “Oh, I know. I was respectful enough to call at the house, though I didn’t see Amanda or Amy. Just Henry. He was doing the honors and he looked at me as though I had personally murdered his dear father. News travels in Boston. Though it was so early, the whole damn street was full of automobiles and the carriages of the old pussies. The old pussies shied at the sight of me and lifted their circa 1880 bombazine and black silks as if I was manufacturing mud.”

  “Why did you go?” asked Caroline.

  “Darling Mama, have you forgotten, and you a Miss Stockington girl? Don’t you remember Boston? If I hadn’t made a properly grave appearance today I’d have had to move out of the city soon. I’m a scoundrel, they all think, but they can stomach scoundrels who make money and are of good family. But they can’t stomach anyone who flouts one of their mossy conventionalities. Amy’s deserted me, and as her mother was a Bothwell, Amy cannot possibly have been even slightly in the wrong or culpable. Amy’s on the market again, or will be in the near future, and so will I. Young love — and money — you know.”

  “You haven’t told me what caused Timothy to die. He looked well enough when I saw him, though he had had that stroke.”

  Ames’ chuckle was louder. “Oh, he had another stroke.” He paused. “Immediately after you left his house. It’s all over the city that you’d been there; possibly servants have been gabbling. So you are the villainess, Mama. You killed Timothy.”

  “What nonsense,” said Caroline,

  “Why, Mama. Don’t you know people now, at your age? Certainly they are crediting it. You see dear Cousin Timothy; he has an immediate stroke; he dies of it last night. Very simple. Everyone’s quite excited. I haven’t seen so much excitement in Boston since old Henry Fromage hanged himself three years ago. Aren’t you upset?”

  “Not in the least,” said Caroline. “I would advise you not to go to the funeral. That would be hypocrisy.”

  “It would be flouting convention again. Certainly I will go to the funeral.”

  He laughed with delight. He was still laughing when Caroline put the receiver back on its hook. Yes, she thought, I am glad. As long as he lived he was a threat. She considered Amanda and Amy and the good sons. She had never written a real note of condolence in her life, but now she did.

  Chapter 7

  Late in September, as she was working in her study, Caroline, without any warning of previous depression or any increase in her slowly growing tiredness, suddenly felt a sudden and overwhelming loathing for living, for existence, for being, for m
erely being present on the earth. It appeared to come from outside herself rather than from her own spirit. She put down her pen slowly; it fell from her fingers and rolled, smearing, over her neat ledger.

  She was battered as by waves of some dark horror, some profound listlessness, some mighty aversion and turning away from life, from everything that meant life. She studied it objectively while her mouth and lips dried and her heart, as if aroused from some secure cave, felt the presence of an enemy. She was, all at once, interested in nothing at all — the day, the hour, her money, her ledgers, herself, her pains, the world fast rolling into convulsions. She pushed aside her financial magazines and newspapers; she closed her ledgers. Then she stood up and went to the window and looked at the calm and smiling ocean.

  Living, she thought, has never brought me any joy or satisfaction. But this is quite different. This is a repudiation of life. All men share it with me at different times; millions, perhaps, are now sharing it with me at this very moment. How can we, at these times, bear to go on living? ‘He who hates his life in this world . . .’ Where had she heard that, a long time ago? She pondered. Beth, of course, who had read those very words of Christ’s to her in the Bible almost half a century ago. Something else, however, was missing — the last of the sentence. There was no Bible in this house; suddenly she wanted to know it all, and what it meant.

  A feeling of awful, black confusion came to her, and terror. “You haven’t given me Your grace,” she said aloud, and bitterly. “I asked You, but it never came.” She thought of the priest in Boston. Half stumbling, she went to her telephone and called his rectory, and she did not even pause for a moment to consider how extraordinary this was for Caroline Ames. When the priest answered she said with abruptness and urgency, “You may remember me. I was in your study some weeks ago. I didn’t tell you my name, but I came to you for some kind of help and you spoke about the grace of God. But I’m not calling about that now. I’ve just remembered something from childhood, about hating one’s life — I don’t know. Can you tell me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Sheldon,” said the priest. “Hello? Yes, I knew your name. I overheard the chauffeur mention it. Will you wait a moment? I want to read it to you in its entirety.”

  He didn’t sound surprised; he didn’t sound confused; he just accepted it, thought Caroline with gratitude.

  The quiet and accepting voice sounded in her ear again. “St. John, Chapter 12:24: ‘Amen, amen, I say to you, unless the grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies it remains alone. But if it dies, it brings forth much fruit. He who loves his life, loses it; and he who hates his life in this world keeps it unto life everlasting . . . Now my soul is troubled. And what shall I say? Father, save me from this hour! No, this is why I came to this hour. Father, glorify Thy Name!’ ”

  The priest paused. “Do you want me to explain the words of Our Lord?”

  Caroline said, “No. Repeat it to me again, please.”

  He did so. Then the priest said, “You are very troubled, aren’t you? You are experiencing what all of us experience, sometimes only once in our lives, sometimes very often. But you are not alone.”

  Caroline said, “I must think about it.” She hesitated. “I’ve asked for that — grace — but it didn’t come.”

  “I think it’s come to you now,” said the priest.

  “Thank you,” said Caroline brusquely. “Good day.”

  She sat at her desk and stared blankly before her, and the awfulness of what she had experienced began to retreat. She thought of what the priest had read to her; somewhere, hidden in her brain or perhaps her spirit, something had been planted, something still in its hard husk but something alive and waiting. It was as if her first overpowering emotions had been a crude spade which had dug into earth for the thing that had been planted a little later.

  It was not calmness that came to her, but a quietude. I’ll have to wait, she thought. The time came for her digitalis, and she forgot it. She sat and looked before her. At last, sighing, she returned to her ledgers and then her newspapers. Then she was blank again. They meant nothing at all to her just now. Her telephone rang and she answered it with impatience.

  “Madam?” said a man’s voice. “This is Griffith.”

  There had been so few times during which she had felt warmth and response in all her life. But she said quickly, “Griffith. Of course. Is there anything wrong?”

  “I’m afraid so, madam.” The devoted man hesitated. “I don’t like to disturb you; I know how busy you are.”

  “No,” said Caroline. “I’m not busy. I don’t think I ever was really.”

  I sound mad, she thought immediately. But like that priest, Griffith accepted her extraordinary words with simplicity. “Tell me,” she said.

  “It began, I think, last spring. That was the first time Mr. Sheldon spoke of it, and he was irritated. After all, he’s only a young man still, too young for spectacles. His eyes were blurring, he said. I made him an old mixture, of boric acid with just a little salt in water, and he washed his eyes with it.

  I believe it helped him a little. But not his headaches. He bought a bottle of that new drug, aspirin. That was last spring. He took only a few tablets occasionally, but now he buys a bottle every few days.”

  He stopped, for his voice had become distressed. Caroline’s instincts, always ready for flight and fear, rushed in on her. “Yes, yes!” she exclaimed. “Go on.”

  “He is never ill, madam. An extraordinary constitution; not even a chill occasionally. I suggested a doctor a week ago for his headaches. He thought it very amusing. But he went to one this morning. He must have been suffering. He returned this afternoon. He sat in his objets d’art room for a long time. When he came out — madam, I say this without exaggeration — he seemed desperate. He left the house; he did not even speak to me when I asked him what he wished for dinner. He appeared to be — running — madam. I’m not a man given to exaggeration — ”

  “The doctor’s name?” said Caroline sharply.

  “An eye physician, madam. Dr. Irving Shapiro. I overheard the conversation on the telephone when he made the appointment.”

  “I will call him at once. Thank you,” said Caroline, and hung up the receiver.

  She reached for the telephone book, then her hand was paralyzed with terror. Ames. Her most unlovable son; her son who was incapable of love. He had nowhere to go for the love he needed. She, his mother, had never told him of love and that it was in the world somewhere. “He appeared to be — running — desperate.” She forced herself to find the doctor’s number, and all her flesh was shaking, rippling, with a horrible cold. Ames was not an emotional man; he did not ‘run’. He was self-assurance itself. “Is he?” said Caroline aloud as she waited for the doctor to answer. “Is anyone?”

  She said at once to Dr. Shapiro: “I am the mother of Ames Sheldon. I am Mrs. Caroline Ames Sheldon. Let us not waste time, Doctor. There is something the matter with my son’s eyes. I must know.”

  Dr. Shapiro said in a professional voice: “I can’t divulge — Mrs. Sheldon.” He paused, then remembered that this woman was Caroline Ames, the incredibly wealthy recluse, and not some frightened, obscure mother. She could command senators, bankers, the whole world, with her money. But still, he was a young man full of integrity and professional ethics. “I suggest you ask Mr. Sheldon himself.”

  “Let us not be stupid, Doctor,” said Caroline, raising her voice. “My son and I rarely see each other. But I am his mother; he has no one else. If he needs help, I am the one who can give it. Who else? Haven’t you a mother yourself? Wouldn’t she want to know about you?”

  As Dr. Shapiro had a very tender mother he forgot all about professional ethics and the sacred right of patients to privacy. He even forgot that he was speaking to the formidable Caroline Ames. His cool voice warmed. “I confess,” he said, trying to retain some formality, “that I was a little anxious about his reaction. Of course shock is natural, in these cases, for everyone. But Mr. Sheldon
, in a way, reacted differently. It was as if — ”

  He stopped. “As if he had suddenly made up his mind” — the doctor coughed — “to die.”

  Caroline was silent; her throat became like stone.

  “I tried to help him,” said Dr. Shapiro. “I told him to get another opinion, perhaps in Rochester, perhaps in New York. This is too serious for one opinion alone, though I am positive — ”

  “What is wrong with my son?” Caroline said in a dwindled voice.

  “I am afraid, Mrs. Sheldon, that he has a brain tumor. He will soon be blind. I told him. We don’t often operate on the brain, you know. One of the forbidden chambers still, like the heart. Someday, perhaps — Of course there have been some rare operations. The Egyptians — but still we don’t know if the patients survived.”